


Liquid Luck

by FlangePlackett



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But he digs it, Drug Use, Hallucinations, John is long-suffering, M/M, Sherlock doesn't know what's going on, mind-bending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24246433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlangePlackett/pseuds/FlangePlackett
Summary: Sherlock wakes up confused and disoriented and quickly realizes that his senses are not to be trusted. He doesn't really care, trust is for the weak.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 29





	Liquid Luck

When Sherlock came to, it took him a few seconds to figure out where his various body parts were. It became apparent after some experimental movements that he was lying on his stomach with his nose pressed to a wood panelled floor.

He crossed his eyes to stare at the wood under his nose. There was something peculiar about it. He watched as the cracks and knots in the wood started to move and swim, twisting and braiding together in an intricate dance.

He couldn’t feel his hand, but he managed to move it regardless, clumsily slapping it down on the floor next to his face. When he scratched his fingernails across the wood, the harsh sound clawed at his ears, loud like a blender full of ice. He recoiled and flattened his palm.

When Sherlock inhaled, he could feel little dust motes tickling the hairs in his nose.

He felt squishy… sort of malleable.

Somewhat curious as to where he was, Sherlock tried to get up to get a look at his surroundings. Being that his arms felt like overcooked spaghetti, he awkwardly pushed himself to a sitting position with the help of his forehead and shoulders.

Before he could register anything at all, the green wall in front of him raced towards him, stopping an inch short of his nose. Sherlock let out a yelp of surprise. He blinked, and by the time his eyes were open again, the wall was back in its place, acting like a perfectly normal wall and daring Sherlock to accuse it of behaving oddly.

Sherlock leaned forward and eyed the green wall suspiciously. The paint seemed to shift under his gaze, rippling away from his focal point in concentric circles. He watched, mesmerized, as a drip of paint formed at the junction where the wall met floor. The drip sucked its way up the wall, against gravity, crawling towards the ceiling.

Sherlock’s eyes tracked the drip diligently, his neck craning to watch it as it slunk its way across the ceiling towards the opposite wall.

Eventually, Sherlock’s spine was unable to keep up with the drip’s path and he twisted around to try and keep up, flopping onto his stomach, propped up on wobbly elbows.

Searching frantically for the drip, Sherlock’s eyes landed on a black bison skull wearing a pair of headphones. It seemed oddly familiar.

He studied the empty eye sockets of the unfortunate creature.

Impossibly, a black tongue poked out from under the upper jaw, darting into the nasal cavity of the skull as if to dislodge any flies, before retreating back to wherever it came from.

Despite the skull’s complete lack of eyelids, or eyes, for that matter, it managed to wink at Sherlock, who pointed dumbly at his chest as if to ask “who, me?”.

Sherlock startled when a familiar voice emanated from the bison skull. The voice was posh, restrained and slightly nasal, and it was unmistakably Mycroft’s. “On the sauce again, brother mine?”, the Mycroft-bison sneered. “Mummy would be so very disappointed. Then again, you always were so very underwhelming, so it would hardly be a shock”.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and his elbows swayed, threatening to collapse under his weight.

The Mycroft-bison seemed not to obey common conversational customs and switched topics without warning. “The plum puddings”, it said gravely. “The plum puddings, Sherlock. Did you count them? This is important, brother dear, remember the plum puddings”.

A sense of impending doom bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest. The furrow in his brow deepened as he wracked his brain for memories of plum puddings.

“John’s life may depend on it”, the Mycroft-bison said. “Ah yes, now I have your attention. Little John Watson. I’ll never understand your… attachment to him. You should tell him, Sherlock. You should tell John Watson…”.

The skull seemed to trail off. Sherlock’s fuzzy mind conjured images of John floating down a river of double cream on a plum pudding floatie…

Suddenly, the Mycroft-bison spoke again, louder than before. “Oh, and before I forget, you would do well to stop buying drugs from Rhonda, regardless of your level of desperation. What is this, the fourth time that she has inadvertently given you cocaine contaminated with psychedelics? Really, Sherlock, grow up”.

The skull seemed to be done speaking for real this time. If there had been any life in its eye sockets while it had been speaking, it drained out of them now.

Sherlock gazed around the room, finally recognizing 221B and smiling stupidly at the familiarity.

He stood up awkwardly (with ample help from the coffee table) and made a valiant effort at walking towards the kitchen, but his knees felt all wrong and he ended up going backwards rather than forwards.

He became genuinely concerned that his knee joints had somehow inverted themselves and he hazarded a glance at them, just to check.

They were, in fact, quite correctly oriented. But, as Sherlock looked down at his knees, the thin skin parted to reveal horrible, red-rimmed eyes, one on each knee. They blinked tearily up at him.

Sherlock yelped and started backwards, trying to escape his own knees, which, of course, can’t be done. He promptly tripped on the tie of his dressing gown and landed heavily on his arse.

He glared daggers at the horrid knee-eyes, which had somehow survived the fall. Sherlock barely registered John entering the sitting room with a bag of shopping, he was entirely focused on squishing his knee skin, trying to force the creepy eyes to close.

Hearing the bag of shopping drop to the floor, Sherlock looked up in time to see John say, “don’t tell me bloody Rhonda–”.

Sherlock cut him off, eager to prove that he could still speak. His tongue flopped out of his mouth and got in the way of his enunciation. “Rhooohndaaah”, was all he managed.

Sherlock watched as John rolled his eyes in response, picked up the shopping and went about putting it away. John rubbed at his spine with a tired hand.

Sherlock, meanwhile, tried to wrangle his tongue back into his mouth, poking and prodding and glaring at it with crossed eyes. Eventually, he conceded and allowed the thing to just hang limply from his lips like a dead fish.

He looked up at John, cocking his head like a curious child. John was the most interesting thing there was.

Deductions usually came naturally to Sherlock. While this set of deductions did come naturally, there seemed to be something slightly off about it…

_John is slightly sweaty around the collar, despite London’s cool temperature. His jumper is creased at the elbow, suggesting he carried the shopping over his arm for at least 8 minutes. This suggests he walked to and from the store instead of taking a cab, which John usually does after he eats unhealthy foods (guilt)._

_Because John walked to and from the store, he had to wipe his fingers on his jeans, leaving behind the characteristic smudges of oil seen mid-thigh on his trousers._

_Because of the oil on his jeans, John felt the need to order fish and chips from the chippy near his work, despite his recent vow to eat more healthily._

Sherlock frowned. There really was something off about those deductions.

Suddenly, John appeared in front of Sherlock. John seemed to shimmer slightly, as if he were a mirage in a hot desert. Sherlock gaped up at the man, fascinated, as John reached down and grabbed both of Sherlock’s wrists in his hands, tugging at them firmly.

Sherlock’s limp body spun around in John’s grip, his arms twisting so that he ended up suspended by his wrists, half laying on the ground, facing away from John.

The room seemed to shrink in front of him. Sherlock then realized that he was being dragged down the hall by his arms. Ah yes, the age-old trick of perspective.

Mid-journey down the hall, John paused to stretch his back, groaning and arching his spine. It was then that Sherlock finally realized what had been wrong with his deductions. “Backwards! Obvi– obivous–… duh…”, he said lamely. John didn’t seem to react to Sherlock’s brilliant revelation.

Having arrived in his bedroom, Sherlock found himself suddenly and unceremoniously tossed into his bed, his lanky limbs flailing awkwardly. He wore only his dressing gown with nothing underneath, but had obviously felt the need, at some point in the past, to put on a pair of dress shoes, which he now wore.

John clearly deemed dress shoes unacceptable sleeping attire, as Sherlock felt them being removed gently. As John’s fingers brushed Sherlock’s ankles, he felt something he’d never felt before, something very strange indeed.

Water. In his toes. It wasn’t that his toes felt wet, but rather they felt like they were full of water. Sherlock thought that they felt rather like little hot water bottles, only big enough for equally little mice. He smiled at the thought.

He wiggled his left big toe, feeling the water inside it slosh. Sherlock sighed softly, rather liking the feeling.

“John, have sex with me”.

Sherlock’s words hung in the air.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach and so he couldn’t see John, but he swore he could hear the wet slide of John’s eyeballs as they rolled in their sockets.

“No”, came John’s simple response.

“Why not?”.

“I can’t have sex with you Sherlock. My back is sore”.

Sherlock frowned. His grasp of social intricacy wasn’t exactly comprehensive, but his limited understanding told him that that was a rather odd answer. There was also something vaguely off about John’s voice…

Sherlock was not discouraged. He simply repeated his initial question on a loop.

Every time he repeated himself, the cool water in his toes seemed to increase in volume. It expanded gradually, creeping up the insides of his feet, slowly filling them up. It was oddly encouraging.

After about seventeen repeats, Sherlock felt a weight sink down on the bed next to his knees. He smiled, knowing he’d won.

“If I have sex with you, this once, will you stop asking every time you get high?”.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. The water in his feet seemed equally enthusiastic as it expanded to fill his ankles.

John was obviously unsure of how to proceed. “What do you want me to do Sherlock?”.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, curling his toes. “Anything”, he breathed out.

After a moment of tense stillness, John’s finger settled on Sherlock’s left ankle. Then, it gently stroked upwards, following the line of Sherlock’s Achilles tendon. The water in Sherlock’s ankle seemed to follow John’s finger, pushing up against his skin as if magnetically drawn to John. As John’s finger dragged smoothly up Sherlock’s calf, the water reluctantly withdrew, no longer able to follow.

John’s finger eventually settled in the hollow behind Sherlock’s knee.

With his other hand, John repeated the process on Sherlock’s other leg, stroking his index finger up until it rested behind Sherlock’s other knee.

A jolt of energy sparked in Sherlock’s left leg. He felt it pass out of his leg, he heard it sizzle through John and he felt it re-enter him via his right leg. His body was a live circuit. He felt energized and vitalized and he felt _good_.

Grasping for purchase, Sherlock reached his noodle arms up towards his wooden headboard. Somehow, the headboard shrunk away from him. Even as he shimmied towards it and reached out his hands, the headboard was consistently just beyond his reach. He groaned in frustration and fisted his hands in his cotton sheets instead.

Sherlock could hear John breathing above him, and it made him desperate. The water in his ankles bubbled impatiently and Sherlock whined, wriggling limply against the sheets. “Touch me”. Sherlock’s voice was thin, but deep.

The weight beside Sherlock shifted. Then, suddenly, that weight dropped itself firmly onto Sherlock’s thighs, pinning him to the mattress. God, John was perfect.

The water lapped uselessly at Sherlock’s calves, desperate to reach John, but completely unable to do so.

Sherlock was equally desperate. He tried to grind his now hard cock down into the mattress, but John’s weight was unforgiving and allowed zero room for movement. Sherlock was pinned down. Restrained. _Caught_. The thought made him moan.

John shushed him gently. Sherlock felt strong hands stroke over his thighs, teasing their way up over the blue silk of Sherlock’s dressing gown to cup his arse. The smooth slip of silk on his skin was heaven.

As John slowly pushed the thin silk up over the curve of Sherlock’s arse, the water followed, as if attached by a string. It grew and grew, bubbling and sloshing until it filled the entirety of Sherlock’s legs, from his toes to the crease where his thighs met his arse.

Sherlock spread his legs slightly under John’s weight. The slosh of the water inside them was novel and fucking _amazing_. It made Sherlock dizzy.

John caressed Sherlock’s arse, kneading the soft flesh. He dipped his finger between Sherlock’s cheeks, just teasing. When Sherlock finally felt John’s fingertip flit across his arsehole, he whimpered.

Suddenly, John’s right index finger replaced the left one. To Sherlock’s surprise, John’s finger was slippery against his hole. Strange. Where had John got the lubricant?

As the tip of John’s finger slipped into Sherlock, all logical thinking abandoned him. He held his breath as John slowly, _torturously_ , pushed his thick finger into Sherlock’s body. When it sunk fully in, Sherlock released his breath in short puffs punctuated by needy little moans.

John’s finger just sat there. It didn’t move, it just stayed.

After entirely too long, John slowly inched his finger out of Sherlock. The friction was wonderful. When John pushed his finger back in, the friction was even more wonderful. It still wasn’t enough.

Sherlock let out an unbridled groan of frustration. “Need… more. John… need your cock… in me. Please”.

“Please, John”.

Sherlock waited with bated breath to see if his pleading had been successful.

Sherlock felt John’s finger withdraw and snapped his eyes open, ready to do some serious complaining, but, before he could, two blunt fingers probed at his entrance. Without ceremony, the two fingers fucked into him roughly. They jabbed Sherlock’s prostate head-on.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he gasped, his back arching up. Simultaneously, the water in Sherlock’s thighs arced up into a wave and crested just perfectly to lap at Sherlock’s prostate _from the_ _inside_.

Suddenly, Sherlock was filled with three thick fingers, which fucked mercilessly into him, hitting his prostate with every thrust. The water in his thighs continued to meet John’s strokes. The double stimulation was bliss.

Sherlock felt his cock drool on the sheets below him.

He managed to cobble together enough brain power to form a single, lonely thought. The thought was such: Sherlock was rather displeased that he couldn’t see John’s face.

Acting on his thought, Sherlock tried to flop his limp body over. John’s hips were still pinning him just below his arse and when Sherlock lifted his left shoulder, John’s left hand came up to pin his forearm down to the bed. Sherlock groaned, half frustrated, half turned on.

He decided that it was probably for the best that he couldn’t see John’s face. An unwelcome image came to Sherlock’s mind: John, orgasming above him, but, as his eyelids flew open in pleasure, a pair of _knees_ stared back at Sherlock instead of John’s blue eyes.

Sherlock shuddered. Better not.

Sherlock felt John’s perfect fingers withdraw from him. His hole clenched at air. John’s perfect weight lifted from his thighs, which suddenly felt cold.

The cool sound of metal on metal came from behind sherlock, followed by the soft slide of a nickel-plated button against denim. The scratchy sound of a zipper being undone was thick in Sherlock’s ears and his mind clouded over with want and _need_ and a desire to be filled completely.

Rough hands wrapped around Sherlock’s hips, blunt fingertips digging into the hollows just behind them. John’s knees pushed against the soles of Sherlock’s feet. In one smooth, swift motion, Sherlock’s hips were yanked backwards as his feet were shoved forwards, manipulating him into a half kneeling position. His legs wobbled underneath him, suddenly forced to hold his weight. His chest was still pressed to the mattress, his hands fisted in the sheets.

His arse pressed against a solid, warm body, and he could feel the hard length of John’s cock, insistent and hot, where it rested against Sherlock’s arse. There was a wet feeling where the tip met Sherlock’s skin.

John stroked his hands up and down the sides of Sherlock’s body, hiking his silk dressing gown up towards his chest. Sherlock shakily held his breath and tried not to move. He was sure that if he was well behaved, John would take care of him. Like he always did.

John’s cock slotted in between Sherlock’s arse cheeks and John thrusted a few times, gliding his hot length against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock whimpered.

Without warning, John lined himself up and just fucked into Sherlock with one hard, true thrust, plastering his thighs to the backs of Sherlock’s and filling him _entirely_. Sherlock bit down hard on a fold of cotton sheets, moaning into the soft fabric.

As John rammed into Sherlock’s body, the cool water in Sherlock’s thighs surged forwards, boiling over and tumbling down to finally, _finally,_ fill his cock. The sensation was cool and jarring and shocking and _fucking amazing_. A litany of needy sighs and moans tumbled from Sherlock’s lips. His cock felt impossibly heavier and he itched to touch it. He tried desperately to collapse his hips to the mattress, seeking sweet friction, but John’s hold on his hips was unforgiving.

John groaned above Sherlock as he started up a slow, punishing rhythm. Sherlock’s cock pulsed with each thrust.

John brought his right hand up to pin down Sherlock’s right wrist. Leaning forward, John draped his heavy weight over Sherlock’s body, his hands moving to press Sherlock’s hands into the bed.

Slowly, without breaking his rhythm, John settled his weight onto Sherlock, pushing his hips down and flattening him to the bed.

Sherlock sighed in contentment as his cock finally touched cotton. He was barely able to move, but the slight friction he was allowed was enough. He felt like singing. He finally had John here with him, on him, _in him_. It was everything he’d ever wanted, not to mention he was still high as a kite and the dopamine accumulating in his neurons was making him feel euphoric.

The water in Sherlock’s body sloshed with every thrust. It climbed up his abdominal cavity, licking broad cool stripes of pleasure up his belly.

Sherlock felt wet kisses at the nape of his neck and nuzzled back against John’s mouth. His cock wept against the sheets, trapped beneath his body.

The water grew inside Sherlock, rising like the tide. It filled his chest and seeped into his lungs, imbuing his every breath with ecstasy. With a particularly forceful thrust, an electric shock zapped between Sherlock’s nipples, travelling with ease through the water inside him. All at once, he became aware of every single electron in every single atom of his being. He could feel them become excited as the current passed through them, could feel them jumping between electron shells. The awareness was overwhelming.

John’s metronome rhythm faltered briefly. Sherlock grunted in protest.

He barely heard John’s excuse. “Sorry, it’s just that my back is really quite sore”. Some subconscious part of Sherlock’s mind maintained that there was something strange about John’s voice. Was it deeper than usual? Rougher?

As John’s thrusts restarted, a slight change in angle had Sherlock gasping, hurtling toward his orgasm. The water swelled inside him, feeling more alive than ever. It rose up, licking up his neck and tenderly caressing his chin. Panic filled Sherlock as the water tickled his bottom lip. He inhaled a massive gulp of air and held his breath as the water climbed up his face.

Sherlock didn’t feel John ease his restrictive hold, but his subconscious took advantage of the change nonetheless. He rutted frantically against the sheets below him, alternating thrusting his cock into the mattress and shoving his arse back against John.

The water filled Sherlock’s eyes. He was blind and breathless and completely at the mercy of his body.

As the water finally reached Sherlock’s brain, his orgasm slammed into him, white hot.

His body screamed with a heady mix of pain, pleasure and perfection. The water in him seemed to stream from his every pore, boiling on contact with his red-hot skin and evaporating into the air. Steam filled the room, choking Sherlock as he came, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs. It was thick and smelt of pine and honey.

He came down hard, gasping for air after holding his breath for so long. Every muscle in his body was suddenly aching and even the air on his skin felt like too much.

Then it was gone. It was all gone, and Sherlock felt boneless and frail and confused. His body felt like it was floating an inch off the bed, he was numb and couldn’t feel where his skin touched cotton.

A hand came up to lovingly stroke Sherlock’s damp curls from his forehead.

Unconsciousness crept up behind Sherlock, pulling at him, trying to seduce him down to its depths, piece by piece. In his last waking moment, Sherlock heard a soft, deep voice. “Sleep. I need some ice for my back…”.

_So that’s what’s wrong with John’s voice_ , Sherlock thought hazily, _it isn’t John’s voice at all. It’s mine._

Sherlock fell asleep and slept deeply for sixteen hours.

.

Sherlock wakes up around three in the afternoon with a pounding headache and a desert-dry mouth. While he does remember everything from the previous night, the memories don’t feel like his own. He replays the evening, feeling like he’s watching a movie from someone else’s perspective.

He painfully extracts himself from his bed, grimacing at a twang of pain mid-way down his spine. His stomach is crusted with dried come. He rearranges his dressing gown and wanders into the sitting room, tripping over a pair of dress shoes as he goes.

Sherlock downs three glasses of water as a matter of urgency, spilling quite a lot of it down his front.

That’s when he sees the sticky note affixed to the fridge. It’s yellow and unassuming.

Written on it in John’s sloping handwriting are the following words:

_Since you never listen to me when I talk, I’m writing this down so you’ll remember. I’m off to Harry’s for the weekend, I’ll be back Tuesday. There’s takeaway in the fridge, right next to the severed foot. Be good and don’t shoot anything until I come back!_

_\- John_

Sherlock remembers. Of course. John left for Harry’s two days ago.

He walks to the ice box and pulls out a bag of frozen peas for his back. It really is very sore…

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so so so much for reading!! I've been lurking in the archive for years and writing my own private stories for a while, but this is the first one I've liked enough to share :) Please feel free to leave a comment, it would make my day!!


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